Unabridged
by scullyer
Summary: Chelsie fluffy smutty thing: Married, pillow-talk about bairns, lives they didn't have, sex to heal old wounds. I don't know, blame the champagne buzz. Happy New Year!


**Author's Note: Blarg, taking a stab at this because everyone is producing such amazing Chelsie fics after the finale. I've been writing Mulder/Scully fic for like _a gajillion years _(used to be here a thousand years ago but only just got back to it. I'm probably getting too old for this) but I had a little time over the holiday and figured I'd try my hand at these two. I think it's just a one-shot little fluff piece, wasn't beta'd at all or anything. I just wrote it in a champagne coma - which is *probably* why it took a smutty turn? #happy2015**

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><p>He slid into bed next to her, gently throwing the covers back, not wanting to disturb her. She'd been quiet during supper, waved her hand dismissively at him, said she had a bit of a headache. She'd take a powder and go to bed. He'd squeezed her hand reassuringly, watched her disappear down the hall to their room. He'd stayed up a few hours, reading as the candle light flickered around him. He had a glass of sherry, alone.<p>

As soon as he pulled the covers up, she rustled in the blankets next to him. Turning to face him in the dark, he stuttered out an apology.

"You didn't wake me." she whispered, sliding her hand across the covers to find his. He took it, grasping her fingers. There was a moment of companionable silence between them. He wriggled toward her on his back, laying a hand over her warm belly. She sighed, letting her head loll toward him, her eyes glistening in the dark.

"You're not feeling well." he said, more of an observation rather than a question. "Did you have a powder before you lay down?"

"Yes," she said quietly, "It's not my head, though."

He waited, hoping his silence would encourage her.

"More a pain of the _heart_, I think."

"Oh," he said, rolling over to face her. They were so close that she could feel his breath tickling against her lips. "Have I done something to upset you?"

She huffed, laying her arm across him, her hands absent-mindedly fingering his upper back. "Oh — _no_, my love." she sighed, "I'm not sure why I feel down; haven't any reason to be."

"Are you worrying after your sister?"

"No — last time I spoke to her caretaker things were in order. And we had that lovely letter from her at Christmas."

"Everything is in order at the big house — no maids giving you any trouble?"

"No, no. They're all quite sweet. Rejuvenated from the holiday and their time off. A few have beaus, I think."

Charles chuckled, "Ah, to be young and in love." He nestled closer to her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "Perhaps the cold is getting to you. It's been bitterly cold this winter."

"Ah, but I've got you to warm me." She smiled, nuzzling her face against his chest. "The winter doesn't seem so long."

He ran his fingers through her hair, picking up a few tendrils and letting them curl around his fingers. Her hair was always so soft against his rugged, calloused hands.

"You were quite content with Miss Sybbie in the nursery this afternoon." Charles whispered into her hair. She pulled her face back to look at him in the dark.

"You saw me, then?"

"Well—I heard you first. Giggling, Miss Sybbie cooing away. I couldn't help but peek my head round the corner." He lifted his hand to her cheek, brushing the back of his knuckles against her face. "Watching you, holding her, singing to her." He looked down at her, noticing that she'd begun to cry softly. "Oh — Elsie, I'm sorry. Now I _have _upset you."

"You haven't," she squeaked, "I just — holding that bairn today, it made me wonder what it would have been like—" she bit her lip, "What it would have felt like, to have _yours."_

He sighed into her hair. She always smelled like Yardley's lavender and breathing in her scent was such a comfort to him. "I suppose it's only natural to wonder. . ."

"Do you?" she lifted her head, "Do you ever think about what've been like?"

He smiled, letting his head rest on his arm, elbow pressed deeply into his pillow. "From time to time."

"And you've never told me?" she said, a bit hurt.

He sighed, "I suppose — well, perhaps I _hadn't_ been able to envision it until today. Seeing you with Miss Sybbie in your arms it was almost as though. . ." he paused, "It was as though, for a moment, I could imagine that you were holding a child of ours. That you were a mother." he chuckled, "It's not terribly hard to imagine. You exude maternity quite naturally."

"Well, I suppose I've mothered the young maids all these years. I can't help but grow fond of the special ones. . .the _sweethearts_."

"Like Anna?" he asked knowingly.

Elsie smiled, "Yes—like Anna." she pressed her face against him, inhaling his scent. She used to catch the occasional whiff of him as they'd pass one another in the servant's quarters, or when he'd reach across her in his pantry to pour sherry. He always smelled a bit of silver polish, a hint of woodsmoke and something that she now knew was just _his scent. _He responded to her nuzzling by pulling her closer, smelling her hair in turn. The Yardley's soap, sometimes a hint of whatever perfume her Ladyship was wearing— and there was also a sweet and slightly husky scent to her, _her scent, _which he had only come to know so long as they'd shared a bed.

"It makes me happy to imagine you a mother," he said quietly, "I suppose there's a tinge of sadness, of the life we didn't live. I find the little dream is an awfully nice one."

She didn't say anything in response at first, so he continued. "I suspect it must feel different to a woman. The duty of mother is, after all first and foremost, _hers_."

"I've wondered what it'd have been like — what it would_ feel_ like." she laughed sadly against him, happy to indulge in the thought, "Do you think we'd have a houseful?"

"Oh, indeed. They would all have the suggestion of a Scottish brogue. A few with red hair — maybe one, the littlest, would have my coloring."

"A boy?"

Charles hummed, "Or a girl. I'm impartial."

"And she'd have you wrapped round her wee finger."

"She'd have your eyes — and her brothers would take good care of her, you know. They'd row like children do, but they would look out for her. Perhaps she'd have an older sister — _she'd_ have red hair and be beautiful like her mother. All the young footmen would be after her."

"What would her name be?"

He thought for a moment, "Our first daughter? Rebecca- _Becky-_ after your sister, I think."

She felt tears stinging beneath her lashes, but she didn't lift her face from his chest, just pressed her eyes tighter together, imagining the children they never had, picturing them almost in vivid color in her mind's eye. "And the boys?"

"I think there'd be two — Becky would have been the first born, then two boys one right after another."

"The first boy — we'd name him after you. Call him Charlie."

He smiled against her hair, "Little Charlie, then. And. . .what about Hugh for the second — in honor of your maiden name?"

"Perfect." She curled her fists up under her chin, imaging their littlest, the girl with her eyes and his dark hair. "And the little one?"

"Well, _she_ was a surprise, I think. But a happy one." Though she couldn't see his face, he too had his eyes tightly closed, imagining. "So, we'd call her Joy."

"Joy," Elsie said under her breath, "That's lovely."

"We'd take them to the seaside in the summer. And then visit your sister in Lytham Saint Annes. Perhaps even take a trip to Scotland, walk them out along the moors."

"_Och_, I can only imagine all the mud."

Charles laughed against her, "They'd run ahead of us — your voice would grow hoarse from calling after them."

"And your shoulders would ache from letting Joy ride on them when she got too tired to walk on her own."

Together in their reverie, they quieted. After a moment she pulled away from his chest, resting her palms against him where moments before her head had been.

"Would you have stayed with me — when they were born?"

"Would you have wanted me there?" he blinked at her in the dark, "Or, _here_ I suppose. Perhaps it would have been here, in this bed."

Elsie hummed nostalgically — if one can be nostalgic for a memory they never had— "Aye, likely so. I would have wanted you to stay here. Hold my hand, be there when they took their first breath."

His breath — hot against her face—slowed. He pressed his forehead against hers, kissing her nose tenderly. "I would have been blessed to bear witness to such an occasion with you."

"And we'd have taken turns rocking them to sleep."

"Oh — certainly we would have. I could probably have conjured up a few melodies from my youth. Sung to them while I stood over there, watching the moonlight rise over our backyard."

"And you'd bring them to me — lay them in my arms. Stay while I nursed them?"

"Yes. I'd bring you some tea, of course."

"Thank you," she giggled, "And—they'd call you _Da, _like how we called our father."

"Da — not Papa?"

Elsie shook her head, biting her lip. "I think you'd prefer Da."

"Better than _Donk _I suppose." He laughed, "And what would they call you?"

Elsie waved her hand at him, "Oh, I haven't thought about it."

He eyed her, "You're a terrible liar, Elsie. I can't believe for a moment that you haven't imagined little voices calling after you." He whispered against her, "Would it be Ma? Mama? Mum?"

She let out a shaky breath, her throat aching. "Ma, I think. Maybe Mummy when they're little."

"And, a question of vital importance," he said feigning seriousness, "Which one of us do you think would be the one to let them crawl into bed when they've had a nightmare?"

"You seem to be suggesting you think it'd be _me_!" she replied, "But I much rather imagine it'd be you — you'd have a soft spot for them. Hate to see them cry."

"I should warn you, I would be likely to sneak them biscuits before dinner."

"I don't doubt it."

He sighed, rolling onto his back. The shift in their respective positions allowed her to flop down, her head on his chest. She listened to his heart beating, feeling it against her cheek. She pulled one leg up, throwing it over his, curling against him entirely. He held her tightly. For a moment, neither of them spoke and outside the winter wind howled low.

"I—I rather enjoy talking about this with you." He said finally, "I was afraid we never would. That either — you didn't think of it or—or you would be upset to know that I do."

"Oh, Charles." She said quietly, "I felt quite the same. I _do_ feel the same."

He let his hands wander up and down the length of her arms, warming her against the night's chill.

"It would have been quite something, you know. To see you carry a child. Quite a marvelous—if not mystifying—event in a man's life. I've seen many children born at Downton. Watched as everyone anxiously waited for their arrival, how things changed each day. . .never to be the same again. I think. . ." he hesitated, "I think I would have _liked_ to experience that with a woman — a woman I loved. With my wife. A woman bearing _my_ children." He pressed his lips against her hair, "With you — _you_ bearing my children. Nourishing them from your breast. Smiling down at them like you always smile at Miss Sybbie. How she laughs in your arms, reaches for you."

"And you —_ you_ with your big strapping arms, cradling a tiny child of ours. Keeping all the horrors of the world at bay. How your face would curl up in a smile as they grasped your finger, smiled at you, reached for _you_ always."

"The tiniest baby's socks to be darned. Nappies and bottles."

"Storybooks. Soft, velveteen bears and rabbits — always mending the limbs."

Charles chuckled at this. He knew from watching Master George that little boys, especially, were liable to be rough with even their most cherished stuffed animals. "They would come to your arms in tears, I think. Children always seek the softness of their mother's when they're sad. And you'd lift them up, hold them close to your bosom. They'd wrap their arms around your neck. You'd give them a thousand tiny kisses to make them smile again."

"At night — you'd read them stories, doing all the character's voices. That would get them laughing."

"Would you hover in the doorway and listen?" He said hopefully.

"Aye. I would. Every night." She lifted her head from his chest and turned to look at him. She leaned up just enough to kiss him lightly upon the lips. It was only as she touched his face that she realized it was damp, as hers was.

"I know we can't alter the past — but it's nice to imagine it." She said, stroking his hair.

"It's a nice dream for us to share," he said, "And I'm glad that we _do_ share it."

She leaned down, kissing him again. When he pushed up against her to deepen it, she let him, her lips parting in response. He rose up, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her until she sat across his body, the sweet weight of her in his lap. His head, heavy with sleep and sadness, fell back against the headboard of their bed. He let his hands rest on either side of her waist, bunching up her chemise. She let her arms rest over his shoulders lazily, her fingers dangling behind his head, interlocking. She bent her head down to steal his mouth for a kiss, which he accepted hungrily, gently tugging on her bottom lip. His hands slid round the front of her waist, and he lifted her chemise up, the backs of his knuckles grazing her soft belly. She stiffened, breaking the kiss, her eyes painfully wetted. He searched her face a moment, a bit lost as to what he'd done wrong. She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head to soothe him. Wordlessly, she pressed his hand against her, flattening his palm across the heat of her belly. It was not the taut, strong center of her youth, but soft and full with age. Still, it lacked the warmth of a body that had grown a child, and she felt it: the stark emptiness of unused parts.

He watched her attempt to conceal her sadness, and gently raised a hand to her cheek, caressing it gently. She reached up, grasping his fingers, bringing them to her lips. She let her tears fall openly, and he caught a glimpse of what had saddened her, though he was aware that as a man he could never truly understand the ache that lived inside of her; in place of a child that never had.

She cried quietly against him and he gently pressed his hand against her belly, forgiving her for something he never blamed her for.

"How can I grieve for something I never had?" She said on a breath, mostly to herself; a self-quandary. He lowered his head, kissing her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts, bringing himself down until his lips could take the place of his hands at her core. He wrapped his arms around her, nestled against her, kissing her tenderly on the soft skin of her stomach. She smiled sadly, tears dripping from her cheeks onto the top of his head, which she pressed against herself as she rocked back and forth, lulling them both.

"I feel so empty, Charles." She cried, "I know I _shouldn't_ — I've had a good life, I _have _a good life. A wonderful one here, with you — but I feel so barren."

"Then let me inside of you, fill what I can." he said against her body. He lifted his head quickly, desperately, taking her face between his hands and kissing her passionately. She let out a small cry — not of anguish, but perhaps surprise, and he pulled away just long enough to catch her eye, gain his permission, and let his hand wander down to her thighs, which he parted smoothly. He gently lay her back down against the bed, running his hands the full length of her body, grasping her full breasts, kissing them sweetly.

"Please Charles," she whispered, her eyes glistening, "Come in?"

He smiled sadly at her, reaching one hand up to lightly brush a fallen strand of auburn hair from her face. Allowing that hand to brace him above her, his other roamed the length of her body until it reached her wet heat. Letting his fingers linger at the curls there, he ducked two fingers inside of her. She exhaled, her eyes widening at his touch. Her warmth shook in anticipation of him, and he realized as he pulled his fingers out and brought them to his warmth, guiding it into her, that their union on this night wasn't about pleasure; it was about healing broken hearts with new love. The weight of that thought within him, he entered her slowly. She grasped his shoulders desperately, as though she might fall away without him to anchor her. He didn't immediately pull back, but instead, allowed them to remain in still unity. He allowed her to be calmed by the feeling of him inside of her, taking up space if only for a moment, his warmth safe; hers, welcoming.

"I'm here," he said softly, "I'm here with you always."

She looked up at him in the dark of the room, a slant of moonlight giving her eyes a sparkle that made his mouth turn up in a sleepy grin. One hand ran from his back, across one strong shoulder, to gently cup his stubbled cheek. A small smile began to stretch across her face, and she laughed, pulling her lip into her mouth as she was wont to do. He pulled back gently, only to surge forward again, giving thought to the tenderness she needed. Her breathing deepened, breasts rising against him as she inhaled, letting her knees fall apart, inviting him in further. He went deeper in response to how she opened for him and found himself finding it somehow inadequate; he knew he couldn't reach the pain. All he could do was love her.

Her back arched in response to the pressure of him building inside of her. Their breathing sped up, synchronizing with their movements against one another. She lifted her pelvis, inching up up so that she could overturn him, her sex tightening around him, until they righted once more and she pushed him deeper, harder inside of her. He had mistaken her sadness for tenderness, and now he saw that she had craved something stronger, to knock out the pain that had spread out from within her chest. He let himself sink back into the pillows, resting his hands atop her hips, letting one hand reach down to press against that place — that tender spot she had shown him, that would bring her to her undoing over and over again. He marveled at its consistency, and now, as she desperately rose and lowered herself atop him, trying to lose herself in the sensation of their bodies together, he kneaded his hands against her, trying to help her achieve the release she craved.

Her head lolled back and she moaned, a low guttural sound that he hadn't heard her utter before. It aroused him deeply, how fiercely she demanded him, the strength of her throwing her weight against him, taking him inside of her again and again, exhausting herself. He wanted to calm her, to soothe her — because he loved her, but he watched as she reached a hand up to grasp her own breast. The sight of it shocked him momentarily; he had never seen her touch herself for pleasure. Sometimes she would examine the scar on her breast, from when they feared she had cancer, but when they were together it was his hands that felt the fullness of them. Her head flicked forward and she looked down at him, her eyes hot and almost wicked. He suddenly felt as though he was beyond the point of ceasing his undoing any further, and he tried to slow her, not wanting to interrupt her; for she was fascinating him, and so beautiful.

Before he could protest further, she leaned down, pressing her lips against his, their teeth knocking.

"Let go," she breathed, "Inside of me — _let go, let go, let go_. . ." Their mouths still touching, their breathes nearly one atmosphere together, he pushed into her, feeling his own pleasure building. As he ascended, he felt her begin to contract around him, the pulsing rhythms of her depths. She let out a shuddered breath, a small cry of pleasure, her lips curling into a smile against his teeth. In his release, he groaned, his chest reverberating against hers as she pressed herself as tightly to him as she could manage. As he filled her, the contractions from inside of her tightened around him until it was nearly more than he could bear. Her body convulsed atop him, her hands shaking, a hot pink blush rising up from her chest, coloring her face. They both gasped for air, groping at each other, both hesitant to pull apart, wanting so much to just stay as one.

Around them, silence buzzed. The navy night sky punctured with tiny points of light, a moon swollen and bright in the corner of their bedroom window, shining white light across their bodies, which began to chill with cool sweat. In the calm that followed, as she curled into him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, he let his fingers muss the tangles of auburn hair, which had come unbraided in their tryst and now fell along her back, splayed out like streaks of paint across her pale skin. She listened as his galloping heart slowed to a steady trot. Letting her eyes fluttered closed, her eye lashes tickling his chest, she sighed contentedly against him. She felt him sigh in return, his hands soothing her hair, a happy growl rising up in his chest.

"I love you," he said evenly, "I love you. . .as far back as mankind goes. I love the paths taken along the way that brought you to me. I love your lineage. And. . .I love you forward in time, in a future tense. I love all the lives we could have had, all the lives ahead that we might still have. I love our little dream." He felt his breath begin to shake, unsteady, his eyes aching with tears, "I love — I love you exponentially." He furrowed his brow, "Well, perhaps that's not quite the right word."

"Comprehensively?" Elsie offered, smiling against him.

"Wholly."

"_Utterly."_

"_To the nth degree_."

"Heart and soul."

"Unabridged." He said, seeming to have found his sentiment. "My love for you is —_ unabridged_."

She laughed, picking her head up just enough so that she could look him in the eye, bringing her arms up so that she could rest her chin upon them while she gazed up at him. "The poet's should have come to _you_ when they wanted to write about great loves, Mr. Carson" She whispered sweetly. He chuckled at their shared teasing. She reached up and let her fingers find his earlobe, which she played with. She knew it made him pleasantly tingle.

"Charles, tell me the story."

"What story is that, my dear?"

"Any story — any of the stories we could have written. Any of the lives we could have lived." She lowered her head to his chest again. "Our little dreams."

He wrapped her in his arms, pulling the covers up around them. The room had grown cold. Outside, night had turned over into near early morning. Soon the sky would alight with a new day. He licked his lips contemplatively, wondering which of all the infinite possibilities would give her the sweetest dreams.

"In some bygone year, when we were still fresh with boundless youth, we fall in love in the servant's hall of a grand house…"

"I think I know this story," she said with a yawn.

"Ah — you _think_ you do, but in fact, in this version we go another way."

"Aye?"

"I . . . acquire the courage, aided by fine liquor no doubt, to tell you that I think you are marvelously pretty one year at the Servant's Ball. You are wearing a simple, but elegant, emerald green dress. A broach on the lapel that I am to assume was your mother's. Your hair is curled, a tendril falling into your face — and you keep delicately tucking it behind your ear after each dance— and the young footmen, they're quite smitten with you. Head Housemaids are typically not so pretty."

"No?"

He yawned, "No — no, never so pretty as you. But, instead of standing off to the side, agonizing over the way that you glimmer, outshining even the ladies in their finery and their jewels and expensive drapery — I cross the ballroom and ask you to dance."

"I accept?"

"You do. And we dance two dances together before someone cuts in. Much to my chagrin — for I would have loved to dance with you all night. I am not deterred, however, and when the night draws to a close I take your arm and walk you downstairs — your hair has begun to come loose. You've lost an earring."

"Oh dear . . ."

"Well, _you _haven't noticed, but I do. I get down on the floor, my tails gathering dust, and I look for it. I'm foolish."

"I tell you to _please get up, Mr. Carson_."

"You do. And I do — and we walk downstairs. I lead you to your bedroom door. You smile and say goodnight."

"And you?"

"I kiss you."

"_Mr. Carson_" She giggles, "And then?"

"Well — then we know that the other reciprocates the feelings. And that's the beginning. We marry, have a cottage on the edge of the estate. We are young and full of vitality. You even convince me to go dancing with you on occasion."

"And bairns?"

"Oh yes. Straight away. The first is a girl."

"With your eyes?" Elsie whispers, her voice trailing off into sleep.

"Mhm. She's beautiful — like her Ma."

Against him, Elsie's breathing has slowed with slumber. He thinks, perhaps, that she has finally fallen asleep. But her voice rises up in a sleepy coo.

"Are we happy, Charles?"

He lets his eyes close at last, his mind filling with a memory he made. She's younger, her face without the lines of time. She sits up in bed, her long hair without a hint of gray, falling over her shoulder. A tiny baby in her arms. She looks up at him as he comes into the room — he, too, is without the aches and creaking joints of old age. He is spry and handsome. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks into the eyes peeking up at him from the bundle in her arms. And Elsie smiles at him—pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, her eyes glistening.

"Yes," he breathes, surrendering to the memory. "We are _very_ happy."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: I should not be allowed to drink! x I hope you enjoyed that silly little thing. I'm going to retreat back to lurking now *grabs bottle* *runs away* Thank you for reading! x<strong>


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